by Amy Lane
Dammit! Alejandro wanted some color in his life! He wanted that color dripping from his skin, he wanted to roll around in it, revel in it, feel it closing around him intimately, stroking him until he….
Oh fuck.
With a little sigh he turned back around to nurse his hard-on in the bathroom again, then threw the towel in the hamper. And yes. He imagined Chelle’s little brother, with his outsized wrists and bony, strong fingers, wrapping that rough hand around his cock and then putting it in his mouth until he came.
HE CAME out again, damned determined to make this whole “get this show on the road” thing work, and Chelle shook her head at him.
“Your breakfast is cold, Yandro—and since it’s sort of a sorry breakfast anyway, I’m not sure how much you want to eat it.”
Alejandro grunted. “Sorry. I, uhm… I lost track of time.”
Chelle nodded like she totally bought that, took her last bite of oatmeal, and then bent down and scooped up the fluffy white cat that was twining around her ankles.
“Hullo, Barney, are you going to be all right once Mummy is gone?” She thrust her pert little nose (Donnie’s was a little bolder, but not by much) at the animal and the cat met noses with her. They did the cheek-to-cheek thing Alejandro never could understand, and she set him down with a sigh.
“Hey,” Alejandro said, “you’re the one who said Donnie was good as a house-sitter.”
“He’s great!” she defended stoutly. “I mean, really good, you know? We keep telling him to bring friends over, and he won’t. He vacuums, he dusts, and the animals love—”
Alejandro held one hand up to stop her from talking, and the other up to rub his temples. “I know, I know, I know… he’s a saint. He needs a halo to go with the blond hair and the cute little pug nose.”
Chelle stopped short and wrinkled her nose at him. “Jesus, Yandro, I think I preferred it when you were a manslut. Get laid!”
With that she grabbed a packet of the morning mail and smacked it down on the white counter in front of him for emphasis.
He looked at the packet and the rumpled bubble-wrap envelope and suddenly saw the first thing that morning to make him smile.
“Hey!” He tore at the battered envelope, ripping the top off instead of bothering to open it, and dumped the contents into his hand. “Damn.”
“Oh, hey!” Chelle said next to him. “Those are sweet. Where’d they come from?”
“My Nana,” he said, petting the soft cream-colored wool reverently. “She sends me something once a year; you’ve seen her work.”
“Well yeah—scarves and gloves and things. I’ve never seen socks.”
Alejandro smiled at her, feeling like a little kid again, bouncy and excited about going off into the bright yellow sunshine, playing in the garden with its jewel box of flowers, and scuffing his feet in the ochre-colored dust of the pathways around his parents’ big home.
“Nana says she loves making socks. Socks wear out, she says. That means she gets the fun of making something else. It’s like, you know you’re an adult when she starts sending you socks, because it means you’re not going to lose them, you’re going to wear them out.”
Chelle snatched one from him and thrust her hand inside, spreading her fingers and checking out the sock itself. The cuffs, heels, and toes were done in navy blue, the splash of color almost brutal against the muted cream of the rest of the sock.
“Oh my God, Alejandro—would you look at that?”
Alejandro looked and his smile grew even wider.
“Go, Nana!” There was a subtle design etched on the top of a sock. “Is that a fish?”
Chelle grinned at him. “Baby, your Nana’s awesome. If you weren’t gay as an Easter parade, I’d marry you for the socks alone.”
Alejandro grinned back. “And if I weren’t as gay as an Easter parade, I would have married you for your cooking.”
They laughed for a second, and then Betty remembered it was time to get going and started pushing at the back of his calves for her morning bout with the ball in the back yard.
“Okay, okay, Betty—I hear you!” He laughed and bent down, pouring all of his frustrated affection into stroking her silky fur and catching her happy licks on his face. She was lovely; he didn’t mind the constant brushing or the playing. For a white dog, she was also damned close to the most colorful thing in his life.
He looked at the socks in his hand. Well, except for his Nana. She was colorful enough to send him socks.
There was a letter in the packet, too, and he was eager to get to it, but first he ran to put the socks neatly on top of his dresser, where they would be waiting for him when he got home.
Donnie
GOD, Donnie was bored.
He’d thought house sitting for Chelle and Yandro would be sooo much fun… and in a way, it was, because Chelle had totally lucked out and the house was sweet. A nice private little yard, a hot tub in the back, and an entertainment center Donnie had dubbed “The Ginormous Manhood of Technology” since he’d helped Alejandro install it last year.
Now all it really needed was Alejandro himself.
Donnie threw himself back on the cream-colored couch and scratched Betty behind the ears. Betty was allowed to be on the couch, which Donnie heartily approved of, and she panted happily back. She and Donnie had spent some quality time throwing the ball in the back yard, and then he’d brushed her out and given her lots of water, and now she was ready for her “relaxation time.” Yandro even called it that, and now so did Chelle, and between Betty and Barney, Donnie actually did have something to do while he watched the place. But he also had another job waiting tables before school started and he hadn’t worked this day, and, well, he was bored.
He thought about calling some of his buddies over for all of a second and a half. He and Chase had gone back to their pre-hand job relationship, which was fine on one level, but painful on another. Chase had gotten himself a girlfriend, although he’d confessed once to Donnie that kissing her was a little like kissing a pillow—it was too fluffy and didn’t do anything for him. Donnie felt sad for his friend. He felt guilty. Maybe if he’d been able to forget his stupid schoolboy crush and give Chase a chance, maybe Chase would have found a reason to come out.
But it wasn’t his place—even he could see that—and so, well, Chase would be awkward without Keith or Kevin to smooth things over, and the fact was, he didn’t trust one of those guys in the bedrooms with Alejandro’s stuff. There was so damned much quality pretty, hanging out and making the place look choice!
The living room was a showcase of white furniture, white area rugs, and hardwood floors. Alejandro’s bedroom was the same way. There were colorful prints on the walls and even pieces of art (which blew Donnie’s college-student mind), but there was nothing here to indicate two college-aged dance majors lived in this extremely elegant home, and Donnie felt a responsibility to keep it that way. (Well, Yandro had graduated the year before, but he wasn’t quite major-age grown-up yet, was he?)
And of course, Donnie sort of wanted to keep Alejandro to himself.
His lust for the guy wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t quit, wouldn’t let him pursue anything more serious with anyone else than what he’d had with Chase—and why not? His fantasies about Alejandro were his first clue he was gay, and they had only grown more explicit and more wistful as the last three years went by. He wanted Alejandro. Yeah, sure, he’d fooled around with other guys after Chase, petting mostly, nothing that would need a condom or a bed, but this whole time it had been Yandro who’d been turning his key. Without trying, without even hardly noticing Donnie was alive, he’d never fricking stopped.
And Yandro was still so beautiful, and still so gay, and still so available.
And still so not here.
Donnie sighed and turned on the television, allowing himself to be sucked into Burn Notice and how hot Michael Weston was, and what a shame he was with the skinny chick with the attitude, and for a second and a half, Donnie wa
sn’t bored anymore.
The commercial break came, and Donnie sighed again. He had to use the bathroom anyway. He put the program on pause and stood up and stretched, wishing he’d brought some of his books from home, because he could probably get sucked into a good book when this was over, and that was how he found himself in Yandro’s room. (Or, well, that’s what he told everybody afterward, because “I was out-and-out snooping so I could find his underwear and use it to beat off” just sounded pervy.)
Alejandro actually did have books in his room—shelves upon shelves of them, everything from girly romances (which Donnie secretly enjoyed) to murder mysteries to autobiographies to poetry. Curiously, Donnie reached for a volume of this last one. Pablo Neruda was the name on the cover, and Donnie thought that maybe, since Alejandro’s family came from Latin America, it was time he did a little bit of homework to help him with his seduction fantasies. Yandro and Chelle weren’t due back for, what? Two days? No worries. Without inhibition he pulled out the little volume and flopped down belly-first on Yandro’s (ohmygod soft) bed and started reading.
He liked some of the poems, but he had to admit that one poem, the one where the guy seemed totally in love with his socks, completely baffled him. He’d even seen Alejandro wearing handmade things—hell, he had a pair of socks folded on the corner of his dresser right now, ribbed, wool, white with blue trim—but he couldn’t seem to get to that whole “Oooh! It’s a sock!” place that would let him understand this poem.
Donnie paused for a minute as he read to look at the socks for just that reason, and as he stared at them, their careful stitching, the design he couldn’t make out on the front, he did, eventually, admire them. He started thinking then, about those socks. Would they really make his feet look like fish, like the poem said? He couldn’t imagine it. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Alejandro, wearing black jeans and a white, mostly unbuttoned shirt, exposing smooth, tanned skin down his throat and to his navel. In his imagination, the black jeans dropped, became the kind where you could see the happy trail, and Donnie tried to imagine that. He’d seen Yandro in those white spandex things moving day, and thought maybe the guy’s package was sort of scary big, which was a hopeful thing for a young boy to think about, so in his mind, scary big it had to be. It was scary big as Donnie unbuttoned Yandro’s pants while lying on the bed, and it was scary big as he pushed them down Yandro’s hips along with his tight boy-thongs, and Yandro’s cock popped out.
Hand jobs were still as far as he’d gotten, but this was his imagination, and he wanted to taste. So he imagined it, big and full in his mouth, and the thought made him hard(er), and he started thrusting his hips against the bed, because his groin was swollen and aroused and he just wanted… wanted so bad.
He imagined that cock in his mouth again, wondered how far he could take it down his throat, wondered how amazing it might be, pushing against his tongue and his palate, wondered if Yandro would grip his hair and make begging sounds and call his name. Donnie groaned and tried to think about socks, because he was about to get off in his pants without even touching his own cock, and that would be a shame.
So he imagined those white-and-blue socks on Yandro’s feet, imagined him all naked, wearing them, and suddenly Donnie wanted him even more. He rolled over on his back, unbuttoned his jeans, and thrust his hand inside, figuring his underwear could catch his come, and started to grip himself hard and stroke himself dirty. Ah, God, yes…. And someday, someone would do this to him, and maybe stick a finger or something in his asshole and maybe lick his cockhead and stroke and lick until Donnie spattered white come all over Yandro’s face again and again, while Yandro closed his deep-brown eyes and held out his tongue and kept stroking with that fine brown hand.
Donnie knew he was going to come because his nuts pulled up under him and his back arched and suddenly his orgasm ripped through him like paper and he all but screamed as the inside of his underwear became hot and sticky.
When he was all done and his breathing had stilled, he sighed, got up, went into the guest bathroom, and showered. He got a glimpse of himself as he stood up and slunk out of Alejandro’s room—his face was flushed and blotchy, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were half-closed with repletion—and for a moment, he got a little mad. He’d felt sexy and powerful for all of the minute it took him to come. He’d felt like he could do anything. Maybe even seduce Alejandro. At least maybe ask for a kiss.
The thought haunted him. God—he’d been out for a year, wasn’t that supposed to mean something? He wanted to be like those socks were supposed to be. They were supposed to transform yarn into an act of love, transform feet into fish, into submarines, into powerful things. Shouldn’t his sexuality make him powerful, transform him, make him super-Donnie, the sexually ready adult, instead of kid-brother-Donnie, the pesky teenager?
When he was done with the shower, he toweled off but didn’t get dressed. Instead he wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to Alejandro’s room in search of those damned socks. He found them and lay back in bed, putting them on with his feet waving above him and the air drying off his thighs and his groin and the little creases and things. He kicked his feet over his head, looking at the cream-colored wool and wiggling his navy blue toes—they felt really good. They were soft and warm and a little more fitted than the average sweat sock, and for a minute he just lay there, admiring them.
It was hot—it was July—and he knew the only way he’d be able to wear them was if the rest of him was naked and he was standing in Alejandro’s overabundant air conditioning, but he didn’t care.
In a fit of whimsy, he stood up, took the towel that had fallen off his hips, and tied it around his throat, standing in front of the full-length mirror in front of the closet with his legs spread and his cock at half-mast and his hands on his hips, trying to look in the mirror like one of Chase’s comic book heroes—like Superman, out to fight for truth, justice, and the American way.
He tried another pose then, the flying profile, with one arm stretched out in front of him and one arm pulled back behind, his fist near his ear, and for a moment he caught his own eyes in the mirror and almost broke character. If anyone saw this, it would guarantee that I would never be kissed again.
He looked away and tried not to giggle, and caught sight of his feet, white socks against the white carpet with that startling blue trim, and although he couldn’t explain it, he thought that maybe, yes, they did make him into a superhero—or at least like he was deliberately naked, proudly naked, ready to fuck or be fucked as part of his plan for sexual maturity, right? He giggled a little. Well, maybe not. But then… what he really needed was some incentive.
Now let’s see. If I was a sophisticated Venezuelan man-god with money and a beautiful bedroom, where would I hide my porn?
Well, you wouldn’t, would you? You’d make it private, because you were that kind of person, but, well, it would be as obvious as in the side drawer by the….
Oh. My. God.
Alejandro liked art books. Big ones with blinding pictures of men, often groups of them, fucking each other silly.
Ohhhh… Donnie could learn a lot from these books. He pulled them out, getting ready to have himself a very good time, when he saw the condoms, and the lubricant, and the cockrings and the buttplugs and the soft bandanas that were obviously used as blindfolds and hand ties and….
His cock was already leaking. Again.
No! He couldn’t come again, not so soon! He wanted to drag this out! He stretched the towel down and grabbed the lubricant. He didn’t want to use the sex toys—although he wouldn’t mind a hands-on tutorial sometime, he was unsure about them now—but he did want to explore his body, rub himself with the lubricant, look at the pictures and dream about having his ass stretched, reamed, and pounded. God, he was horny.
And he was wearing Alejandro’s socks, and somehow that made it ever so much more delicious.
He lay on his stomach at first, leafing through the first book, pausing
to take in details of pictures that pleased him. He found he liked the quiet pictures the most—the ones of tenderness, of eyes in shadows, softly parted mouths, hands covering or stroking or body parts hidden, even if you knew they were there. Those were beautiful, he thought, and still, they made his groin ache and his hips arch and they made him yearn. Would Alejandro ever look at him like that? Touch him like that? Stroke a hand down the center of his chest, along his soft stomach, down the fine line of blond fur on his lower abdomen and to….
With a groan he set the book nicely aside and rolled over on his back, careful to keep his hips on the towel. He fumbled with the flip cap and poured some lubricant on his fingers, liking how cool it was, and then took the slick, shiny hand and put it on his slick, shiny, drooling cock.
Oh yeah. That was wonderful. He started out by “tickling” it—running his fingers up and down its length, flirting with the underside, the fine, sensitive part right below the head. He slid his thumb over the head, still teasing, and was gratified when a little spurt of pre-come spilled hotly, dribbling down the length of him and making a little puddle on his tummy. Everything ached… oh, God, it ached so deliciously, he had to grab it, had to squeeze, to clench, to stroke, hard, harder, longer… ohhhhhh….
His fingers traced random patterns on his hairless chest, and he gasped again when he grazed his pointy, pink little nipples. Ooooooh… very nice. He grazed one again, and again, and then pinched it, pulled it up, made it pointier and harder and found his hips were bucking off the bed, and he kept spreading his legs wide and wider and clenching his asshole tight and then tighter, looking for something, begging for something, reaching for something….
Auuuuuugghhhhhhh yes!
He already knew his come had two textures, two flavors, and when he came hard—hard enough to make his vision black, make him bark wordlessly, and make his nuts clench up and under in their effort to squeeze through his dick—it was thick and white and not bitter at all.
